Sanctuary
by RickRhymes
Summary: A routine supply run gets complicated for Rick and Michonne. Winter three-shot.
1. Chapter 1

Michonne remembered the cabin because it stood alone in a thick forest of trees. The only shelter as far as the eye could see. When she and Rick had passed it earlier that day, her first thought was that it was a particularly dangerous place to hunker down. Sitting well below the main road, it was highly visible, and susceptible to being overrun or attacked.

But, an unlucky combination of walkers and unanticipated inclement weather had pushed the two of them off course and further away from their van than they'd wanted to go - complicating what had been an otherwise routine supply run. On top of that, while neither of them dared admit it, they'd gotten a little lost. With nightfall quickly approaching, and the snow picking up, that cabin was just what they needed. Only for the night.

It was even smaller up close that it was from the road, constructed from real logs, with a low sloping roof and chimney, and a little stamp of a porch made from clay. There looked to be a single door, and just two small windows on either side of it. One way in, one way out.

"You know who I bet lived here?" Rick said as they approached their home for the night. "A ranch hand."

"Why's that?" Michonne asked.

"Cause of these," he said, stepping around to the side of the house and producing a rusted, iron wagon wheel in each hand. "Anyone who'd ever let this ugly shit onto their property has got to be a cowboy."

She smirked and climbed onto the porch. The door was solid wood, and the windows were covered by drapes, so she couldn't see inside.

"No, look right there," he said softly, coming up behind her and pointing to a spot in the distant surrounding woods. It was difficult to see, but once her vision focused… A farmhouse.

It was old, and run down. Probably abandoned even before the end of the world. "How did we miss that from the road?" She asked, mostly to herself.

"Don't know," Rick said, equally puzzled. "Must have been the trees."

She grunted, noncommittally. "Think we should stay there instead?" A big house like that, no matter how old, was more likely to have supplies than a ranch hand's quarters.

"We can get warmer here. It's smaller," he reasoned, then banged his fist on the front door and held his ear to the wood to listen for any movement inside. "We'll check it out in the morning, before we head out."

She nodded, comfortable with any plan that would get her off her feet as soon as possible. After hearing nothing from inside the cain, Rick turned the door handle, and they were greeted with a gentle, yielding click. He pushed it open. Michonne entered first, moving directly to her right and yanking open one of the curtains. Rick followed suit with the other window.

With the pre-dusk light now streaming in, they could see everything. Which was, for all intents and purposes, nothing. It was a full living space, complete with a kitchenette, a few cupboards, a fireplace, and enough room for a small bed and some seating. But the place was mostly bare. There was a small sofa with an ugly floral pattern shoved against the right wall, and two old, wooden dressers in the back.

"You got matches?" Michonne asked, gesturing to Rick's over-the-shoulder bag.

He lifted the front flap and fished his hand around inside. "Got a lighter," he confirmed.

"Well, then," she smiled, walking to the back of the cabin and running her fingers along the dust-covered dressers. She nodded toward the fireplace. "These should make great firewood."

Both of them would have settled for a mere barrier from the frigid air. But the idea of falling asleep in front of a blazing fire was spine-tingling.

He tossed her the lighter. "Why don't you get started on that? I'll get these curtains nailed to the wall."

Fifteen minutes later, they had one dresser broken down, the windows covered tight, and a fire blazing. The front door seemed to lock only with a key, which they couldn't find. So, they'd pushed the second dresser in front of it for an extra measure. Michonne then ripped the bottom and back cushions from the couch and set them on the floor, giving the two of them a seat as close to the fireplace as possible.

"So, what's on the menu?" Rick inquired, lounging on the couch cushions while Michonne pulled their rations out of her backpack. "Ravioli? Creamed corn?"

"Tonight's special is…" She produced two medium-sized cans from her pack. "Baked beans."

He propped himself up on his elbow, his interest piqued. "The kind with the bacon?"

"Vegetarian," she regrettably informed him. She tossed the cans in his direction and he caught them deftly, then reached into his back pocket for his switchblade.

One at a time, he worked his blade back and forth into the lid of the cans. Meanwhile, Michonne settled into their makeshift bed with two spoons. Big spoons. The kind Michonne had to open your mouth uncomfortably wide to eat with. The ones she used avoid using to the point that she began to wonder why she'd even purchased them at all.

He handed her one can, and took a spoon from her, and they ate their sparse meal in comfortable silence.

They'd been on their run for a few days now, just the two of them. In the colder months, runs became a more trying task than normal. Squirrels, rabbits, and deer went into hibernation, eradicating one of their staple sources of food. Snow caked onto roads and signs, making it hard to follow their maps. And, as it happened today, weather often delayed and derailed their plans.

Still, it had been a good few days. They'd outmaneuvered one walker herd after another, and repeatedly pushed their car out of the snow, and frozen their tails off at every turn. And they really hadn't found much to show for their efforts. But doing all that out here, together, was more satisfying than any of the cushy jobs waiting for them back inside the walls of Alexandria.

After dinner, they relaxed into the cushions laying side by side, Michonne's back pressed to Rick's chest. It was one of several habitual sleeping positions, comfortable and especially satisfying in the cooler months.

They were both on the cusp of sleep, when an idea struck Rick.

"Hey," he mumbled. "We may be overlooking an opportunity."

"What's that?"

Rick didn't speak, just nudged his leg in between hers and pulled her body closer to his, and she let out a low laugh in response.

"You sure you're not too tired?"

"No," he lied. He was practically unconscious already. But he rarely found himself all alone with Michonne, and a soft makeshift bed, and a roaring fire. Sex sounded just as appealing as sleep. "Are you?"

"Not if you aren't," she said, and he lazily ran one hand up and down her thigh. "Give me just a second," she yawned.

"I'll get started without you." He began kissing the spot behind her ear.

Michonne willed herself to overcome her own drowsiness, and turn over. But Rick's warm hands and soft mouth were doing even more to relax than arouse her.

"Okay, here we go," she said. "In three...two...one."

But she didn't move. And shortly after, Rick stopped kissing her neck, and his breathing got slow and deep.

Just before they dozed off, Michonne whispered into the quiet cabin.

"Was it good for you?"

* * *

Michonne was woken up from a deep sleep by the sound of cracking wood. At first, she mistook it for the the fire, but she opened her eyes to find nothing but soot under the hearth. Noticing that Rick's warm body was no longer next to hers, she rolled over. Just across the room, he stood over pieces of the now disassembled second dresser, breaking it down by hand.

They'd be leaving soon, Michonne thought to herself. They really didn't need more firewood.

"Hey," she croaked.

Rick turned around to look at her, and smiled. "Morning."

"What are you doing that for?"

"We're going to need it," he explained, and was met with her confused expression. "Take a look outside."

Michonne rolled off the couch cushions, shivering at the loss of warmth, and shuffled to one of the windows where Rick had pulled out the nails and peeled back the drape. She winced against the bright glare of the sunlight, which reflected off the thick blankets of wet snow, and bounced back into the cabin tenfold.

"Jesus." They snowfall was heavy last night, but she'd never imagined this much accumulation.

"There's got to be almost a foot out there," Rick said, seeming to read her mind.

"We're definitely not in Georgia anymore," she lamented.

Rick picked up an arm full of wood and carried it past her, shoving it into the fireplace.

"Wait, Rick," she interrupted. "We can't stay here. We could get snowed in," she said.

Rick had already considered that. "Would you rather get stuck in here, or out there? Even if we find the van quick, we might not be able to move it."

Michonne let out a heavy sigh. He had a point.

"Besides," he continued. "The sun's out. It could be melted in a couple days."

"What if it's not? We're already down to a couple more days' rations. The rest is in the van."

Rick knew that, too. He weighed their options while he transfered a second load of wood to the pile.

"There's the farmhouse," he said.

"You think we're going to find food there?" She would've expected to find some tools and weapons. Maybe. But not food.

"It's worth a shot." But Michonne didn't look convinced. "What do _you_ want to do?"

She leaned back against the wall. Either they stayed here and risked getting snowed in without food, or they went back to the car and risked getting stuck there with food, and freezing.

"You want to stay," she said, and he nodded. She got a strange feeling it wasn't just practicality that made him feel that way. But she wasn't going to dwell on that now.

"I suppose," she began, pushing off the wall. "We should check out the farmhouse, first. If we find food, then we'll hunker down until the snow melts."

Rick was agreeable to that plan. Using his feet, he shoved the remaining wood pieces to the corner of the room.

"Alright. Now that that's settled…" He grabbed his lighter and walked to the fireplace. "Why don't we pick up where we left off?"

Michonne smiled at his eagerness, but had to stop him. "Don't you think the farmhouse should be our first priority? We want to get there before dark, or before the snow picks up again."

"It's not going to take...that long," he hesitated, realizing he wasn't paying himself any compliments. "Besides, if we don't find anything, you're going to want to hit the road right away."

He was right about that. She searched her brain for something that would entice him.

"I'll tell you what. We go to the farmhouse now, and if we do find food, then we come back here, and I'll do…" She paused for emphasis. "The thing. For you."

A look of confusion crossed his face as he tried to decipher what _the thing_ was. And then it dawned on him.

Michonne burst out laughing at the look of awe in his eyes.

"Do we have a deal?" She held out her hand to him to shake on it.

"We have a deal," Rick confirmed, grabbing her hand, and pulling her to him for a kiss to seal it.

* * *

A/N: To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

Rick kicked open the door, clumsily, supporting Michonne's body weight as best as he could.

"Lay down." He gestured at the pile of cushions on the floor, and Michonne limped over to them, where she took off her shoes and socks. He kicked the door shut with his boot and set their packs on the floor.

Crouching down in front of her, he took one of her feet into his hand. It was as cold as ice. He encased it between both his palms in a futile effort to warm her. "Can you feel that?"

"Barely."

"Alright," Rick stood up and placed his hands on his hips, assessing their situation. "You're headed toward frostbite, if you're not there already."

Back inside the farmhouse, Michonne and Rick had split up. He took the upstairs while she scoured the kitchen and living room.

The farmhouse didn't appear to have been well-kept even before it was abandoned. The roof and wood siding were beginning to decay, rust stains marred the brick porch, and barren vines tangled out of control up the sides of the structure. Inside, broken windows had left the floorboards and furniture exposed to the elements. Broken photo frames, glasses, and knick-knacks were scattered about the floor.

The ranch hand's quarters was a palace by comparison.

Michonne hadn't found any food in the kitchen - which was no surprise at this juncture - but she had spotted a large, cast iron pot. Their pots were back in the van, and if they found any food they had to cook, they might need one. It sat on top of the kitchen cabinets, requiring her to hoist herself up onto the countertop to reach it. When she jumped back down, her legs plunged directly through the deteriorating floorboards and into a pool of frigid, standing water in the crawlspace below.

Her shoes and socks were soaked through almost instantly.

On their way back to the cottage, Rick had tried to carry her piggy-back style, but he kept losing his balance in the deep snow. After they fell over for the third time, Michonne opted to walk, as the setbacks were only prolonging her exposure. By the time they reached the cabin, she was numb from her calves down.

"I don't think you're going to lose a limb or anything," he assured her. "But we need to nip this in the bud."

Confident in his diagnosis, he sprung into action, going to her pack and unhooking the pot from it. He carried it out the door, and she could hear him scooping snow into it. Once back inside, he pulled his lighter from his pocket and began preparing another fire.

"You know, if you secretly wanted to stay longer, all you had to do was say so. All of this was unnecessary," he teased.

Michonne fell back onto the cushions, exasperated. "We would have been out of here, too, considering we didn't find any food." Now that she couldn't travel, they had no choice but to stay at least another day. While their rations dwindled...

Rick smirked, reaching with one hand to grab his pack and slide it to her. "Guess again."

"You found food upstairs?"

"Yeah. In the office. Found some pickles. Homemade, it looks like. And some of those little packs of oatmeal. The kind that only take a minute in the microwave."

Michonne opened his bag and found, just as described, a canning jar with pickles bobbing inside, and a half-empty box of cinnamon raisin oatmeal packets. The latter in particular would be a nice, substantial addition to their remaining rations of canned spaghetti and the same old baked beans.

After about ten minutes, he was lifting the pot from the fire and setting it down in front of Michonne. It wasn't quite large enough that it would fit two feet comfortably, but it would get the job done. Gingerly, she dipped one foot at a time into the warm bath.

"It's not very hot," she commented, disappointed.

"I know. We want to raise your temperature slowly, not all at once."

"Why?"

"Actually," he paused for a second. "I don't know." He dipped one hand into the warm water and lightly caressed her cold feet. "All of this is just stuff the doctor told us when Carl got frostbite."

"When was that?" She asked, always eager for stories about when Carl was a little boy.

"He would have been about…" Rick pulled his hand out of the water and wiped it on his jeans, then sat down across from Michonne. "Seven years old. Lori and I, we drove him up to this ski lodge. About five hours north of Atlanta."

He got a ghost of a smile on his face thinking back to a day from another life. "He was so happy. He'd never seen snow like that. He met some other kids up there… They just spent the whole day building forts, and having snowball fights.

"And at some point, he lost his gloves, but he kept on playing anyway. Later, he came in for dinner with a nasty little frostbite on his fingers. He thought we wouldn't notice if he just kept his hands in his pockets..."

"Why didn't he want you to see it?"

"He was afraid we'd be upset that he lost his gloves," Rick laughed and shook his head. "Anyway, one of the things the lodge medic said was… _You got to warm the affected area slowly._ "

"So what happens now, Doctor Grimes?"

"We wait. Hopefully, not for too long. Until all your feeling comes back, and then a little longer, for good measure."

"Okay." She didn't know the difference, but it sounded like a solid plan. Rick had at least some experience in this area, whereas she had none, so she was happy to follow his lead.

"For now, we might as well just rest for a bit."

Fully onboard with that idea, Michonne laid back slowly onto their bed, careful not to dislodge her feet or spill any water. Rick tossed a couple more small pieces of wood onto the fire, and then joined her. He laid on his side, facing her, and draped an arm across her stomach. They lounged there, not saying much, enjoying the crackle of the fire.

Michonne soaked for about twenty minutes, until the water needed to be reheated, and then another twenty minutes after that. By then, the numbness had given way to itching, tingling sensations tingly, but those eventually faded, too. When she felt normal again, Rick insisted on another twenty, just to be safe.

While he took the pot outside to fill it with fresh snow, Michonne padded over to the fireplace to check on her shoes and socks. The socks were drying from the heat of the fire, but her shoes were still soaked. She pushed them a little bit closer to the flames.

Rick came back inside with more fresh snow in the pot, and reached for the box of oatmeal. "Hungry?"

She was, of course, but as he read the directions on the back of the box, it dawned on her that he had, in fact, won their bet. He found food. And being the good sport that she was, she was prepared to hold up her end of the bargain.

"You're not interested in your winnings?"

Surprised, he looked up from the box. He'd be lying if he said he forgot about the deal. That afternoon was the first time he'd been aroused by a jar of pickles, knowing the rewards those stupid cucumbers would bring him. But he wasn't going to bring it up until he knew Michonne was feeling better.

He unceremoniously dropped the pot and the oatmeal onto the floor. "Are you sure you feel okay?"

She responded with a single nod. "Get undressed."

She watched freely as he took of his coat, boots, button-up, belt and jeans. When he reached for the hem of his undershirt, she stopped him. "That's enough. Lay down."

Rick settled back into the cushions, propped up on his elbows. Michonne stepped out of her own pants, shed her bra without taking off her top, and descended on him. Straddling his thighs, she found him to be hard already. She moved her hips on his in circles, using only the slightest pressure.

Relaxing onto his back, he raised his arms and filled each palm with one of her breasts. She was giving him so little that he was able to feel everything - her fingertips on his skin, her nipples pressing against her shirt, both of their underwear dampening from her moisture.

Just when he thought he was going to go mad, she rose up onto her knees. She grabbed his hands and guided them from her breasts to the elastic band of her underwear.

"Take them off," she instructed.

Rick eagerly slipped his hands down the back of her underwear, cupping her bottom and lingering there before shoving the garment down her thighs. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance as he slipped the underwear off one leg at a time and flung them across the room. Resettling against his groin, she leaned down to kiss his mouth, his jaw, his mouth again.

While she was busy plotting her next move, he surprised her by flipping them over. Her back hit the cushions and Rick was on top of her in and instant. He ground against her now, much more forcefully than she had done to him before. Even still in his underwear, he managed to hit the right spot, and she spread her legs wider to give him better access.

She didn't have the strength to flip back underneath her, so instead pushing up against him, rolling them off the couch cushions and onto the floor. Rick's back hit the floor with a hard thud, but he was unphased. He reached for her face, to bring it down to his own, but she snatched his wrists and pinned them on either side of his head.

"Do you want it, or not?" She asked, breathing heavy. The foreplay was good, but if they didn't watch it, they'd get carried away and leave _the thing_ in their dust.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Got carried away. Sorry."

"Mhm."

She gripped the hem of his shirt, pushed it up his torso and over his head, but left it looped around his hands. With his arms secured in place, she inched her way up his body. She left one one hand on his wrists, and placed the other on the floor for balance. Planting her knees on either side of his face, she lowered herself directly onto his mouth.

It was something Michonne had done for him only once before, one night after a group of them had found and consumed an entire bottle of whiskey. When she and Rick stumbled back home and into their room, she'd pushed him onto the bed forcefully. She still didn't know what gave her the inspiration to pin him down and sit on his face. She'd never done it with a partner before, never even fantasized about it.

That time, it had been perfectly good for her, but Rick had gone absolutely wild over it, coming in his pants before she'd gone anywhere near his dick. He'd asked - even begged - for her to do it again since then. But with all her inhibitions in tact, she couldn't overcome the self-consciousness.

Now, immersed in the sensation of Rick's tongue working at her, she loosened her grip on his wrists. She felt his hands travel to her butt, squeezing and kneading along the way. Several loud smacks reverberated through the small cabin as Rick swatted her left cheek. The spanking upped the sensation for both of them.

Michonne tangled her hand in his hair, a gesture of affection melding into a show of dominance as she held him in place. She began to move against him more rigorously. Rick matched her rhythm with enthusiasm, and slipped one hand down between his legs. Michonne could tell by the minute movements in his body that he was touching himself.

Despite the initial nervousness, this experience was a hell of a lot better sober. It was good. So good, in fact, that she didn't notice the stench in the cabin right away.

"Rick," Michonne stilled. "Do you smell that?"

"Mmm," he moaned, thinking it was part of their lovemaking.

"Rick." She turned around to see grey puffs of smoke gathering around the fireplace and floating up to the ceiling. "Shit!"

She hopped off of him and made a line directly for the pot of now melted snow. Rick regained his composure and turned over just in time to see her tossing it into the fireplace. The crackling of the fire was snuffed out immediately, replaced by a low, steady sizzle. They both watched the fireplace until all the embers burned out.

Rick wiped off his mouth with his palm. "Guess the chimney is blocked."

"Blocked by what?" Her tone was sharp, clearly irritated by the interruption to their activities.

If he was honest, he didn't give a damn what was blocking it. The fire was out now, so there was no danger of smoke inhalation. Sure, they'd have to do their business in the dark, but his head was going to be buried between her legs anyway.

Still, he knew her well enough to know she wouldn't let the matter rest until they'd gotten to the bottom of it. Resigned, he reached for his discarded clothes.

"I'll go look."

"I'll go," she offered.

"No," he said, decisively. "Stay here. Can't have your feet in the snow, and your shoes aren't even dry."

Unhappy, but compliant, Michonne plopped back down onto the couch cushions. He was exiting the front door when he saw her reaching for her discarded pants. "And _don't_ put those back on. This should only take a minute."

Of course, getting onto the roof proved to be a more trying task than he'd anticipated. Snow obscured the nooks and crannies of the exterior walls, and small patches of ice were hidden in the most inconvenient places. Ultimately, he resorted to balancing on one of the wagon wheels and lifting himself up.

When he approached the chimney, it was just as he'd suspected. A pyramid of snow had built up around it, piled high enough to plug up the opening and then some. It hadn't snowed all day, so it must have been due to the biting winds.

"See anything?" He heard Michonne's voice calling from inside.

"It's just snow!" He shouted.

The sound of his boots crunching in the snow penetrated the still night air as he approached the chimney. He pulled his coat sleeve down over his hand, and used his arm to swipe the snow off the chimney in thin layers. After clearing the opening, and checking for any other debris in the shaft, he turned to go back inside.

"All good!" He called to Michonne. "I'm coming-"

Rick's words were cut short when his foot his a patch of slick ice. On the sloped roof, he couldn't keep his balance, and went toppling backward. On the way down, the back of his head smacked against the corner of the chimney, sending waves of pain through his body. He tried to stand, but was too unsteady on his legs. He reached out for the chimney to keep himself from slipping but he was too late. He was sliding off the roof, grappling for anything to catch himself on, but finding nothing but more snow.

He landed on his back, grateful for the thick blankets of snow cushioning his fall. Stars were exploding behind his eyes from the initial hit, and Michonne's voice sounded muffled as she repeatedly called his name from inside. He tried to answer her, but the pain in his head was searing.

"I'm coming out!" He heard Michonne call from inside.

"No!" He objected, using all of his strength to get the word out. "I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Need a second!" Rick tried to focus on his breathing, and not the way the snowy tundra was spinning around him. "I just need a second," he tried again, but it only came out as a whisper.


	3. Chapter 3

"How was it?"

Michonne picked up the cast iron pot from the floor in front of Rick, and set it aside. There was no need to clean it. Not a single grain was left in the bottom of the pot from their oatmeal dinner.

"Good. Sweet," he said over what must have been his tenth yawn in the last five minutes.

"Rick, please, just go to sleep," Michonne implored.

"It's hard. My whole life, I was told you have to stay awake after a concussion."

Rick had made his way into the cabin on shaky legs, feeling nauseous and dizzy. When the symptoms didn't pass after a short while, Michonne determined that he may be suffering from a concussion after hitting his head. She also informed him that, contrary to popular belief, there was no medical reason for him to refrain from sleeping after suffering from one. In fact, rest was the best thing for him. But, he remained apprehensive.

"Rick, I told you, you can go to sleep. You should! That whole thing about falling into a coma is a myth."

"Well, what about the thing where I can't physically exert myself? Is that a myth?" He probed, referring to her insistence that they not have sex until he was checked out.

"That's a fact. Besides, you couldn't make it happen if you tried."

"Now, see, that sounds like a chall-" He was cut off by another yawn. He opened his eyes to find her smirking an _I Told You So_ smirk at him, and he surrendered. "Okay. You win."

Rick pushed off of the wall where he was sitting upright, and settled into their temporary bed once again. Michonne joined him, resting her head on the opposite side, next to his feet.

"You sure you're not going to get some sleep, too?" He asked, already closing his eyes.

She shook her head, and gestured toward the new fire under the hearth. "I want to stay up and make sure the chimney stays clear. I'll be good."

Whatever apprehensions Rick had about sleeping with his concussion were quickly fading as the warmth of the fire and comfort of the couch cushions lulled him into sleep. He would have been out like a light if not for one thing: Michonne. She was fidgeting. He could feel her moving her head around in all different directions.

"What are you doing?" He couldn't help but ask.

"I was just thinking… Do you really think a ranch hand lived here?"

"Maybe. Why?"

" _Somebody_ lived here. Something happened to them… I wonder what it was."

"You tell me." Rick said.

"What?" She furrowed her brow.

"Think of it like a bedtime story. It'll keep you awake, and it'll put me to sleep."

It was actually a good idea, when she thought about it. But she didn't know where to begin.

"Okay… Well, I think someone in that house was an alcoholic," she started, pointing in the direction of the farmhouse. "When I was going through the kitchen, I found a drawer full of receipts. Most of them were from a place called _Sawyer's_ , a bar. There were dozens of them in there."

"I saw some empty Knob Creek bottles upstairs in the bedroom," Rick recalled. One bottle could have been innocuous enough, but he saw at least three - a definite sign of a drinking problem.

"Maybe the farmer."

"I don't know much about farming, but I know this land is a shit place to do it. Down in a valley like this, there's nowhere for the water to drain. The plants suffocate."

"So, all the farmer's crops die eventually. He doesn't have any income, and the stress drives him to drink."

Rick smirked, enjoying the tale Michonne was spinning.

"It's a big house. He doesn't live there alone. He's probably an older man, his kids are grown," she decided. She couldn't help but draw a little inspiration for her story from the only farmer she'd ever known - Hershel. "It's just him and his wife then. But she's unhappy, of course, because her husband's a drunk.

"But, she wouldn't have any money either, so she can't leave. Maybe she has an affair -"

"With the ranch hand," Rick interrupted.

She swatted him on the thigh. "This is _my_ story. You're supposed to be falling asleep."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, yes, she has an affair with the ranch hand. And the farmer finds out…"

"And he kills them?"

"Is that what you would do?" It was a playful inquiry, but they were both keenly aware in that moment that Rick had, in fact, killed the man who slept with his late wife. Even if that wasn't the reason why...

"No," he answered, with only slight hesitation.

"The farmer kills _the boyfriend_ ," she decided. "Stabs him in the heart. The wife gets away."

"Why?"

"Because I like her."

"You don't know anything about her except she's broke and likes having sex with cowboys."

"I can relate to that," she reasoned, poking him.

Rick shook his head, laughing. "Keep going."

Michonne pondered where to take the story next. "The wife flees town. The farmer is wracked with guilt over what he's done. So much so, that he thinks he sees the ranch hand wandering around the property in the middle of the night.

"He thinks it's his conscience playing tricks on him. Until one night, he hears a scratching at the front door, and he opens it. And the ranch hand is standing right there, knife still stuck in his chest. He lunges at the farmer, and devours him alive."

"That's the end?" Rick asked after a prolonged silence from Michonne.

"That's the end."

Rick kinked his eyebrow in uncertainty. "So… _Devours_ , as in, a metaphor? Or the ranch hand's spirit devoured him...spiritually...?"

"Rick." She was surprised he didn't get it. But he did have a concussion, so she'd let him off easy this time. "He turned into a walker."

"A walker."

"Maybe the very first walker."

He thought about that for a few moments, and decided he liked it. "Hmm. Nice twist."

"Thank you," she said. However, it was a rather short story. He was still awake, and she was still exhausted. She could feel herself starting to drift off when, thankfully, Rick's voice brought her back.

"You ever think about the prison?" He asked.

"All the time. Why do you ask?"

"Maybe somebody's there now, doing this. Making up some story about what happened there."

It was intriguing to think about. By this time, the walker masses could have moved on. The fences were irreparably damaged, but some of the individual blocks could be habitable. For a while. Maybe there were people there again… They'd walk the corridors and sleep in the bunks, just as Rick and Michonne's people did. But those people would never know all the things they lived through.

"Hopefully, whatever they come up with is better than the reality," Rick said, thinking of the death and destruction that eventually ran them out of the prison.

Michonne pulled herself up into a seated position. Pivoting on her butt, she laid back down again with her head next to Rick's. She reached a hand out to his cheek, ran her fingers over his soft stubble, and planted a soft kiss on his mouth. He opened his eyes for the first time since laying down.

"It wasn't all bad," she reminded him as she pulled away. He lifted his fingers to her wrist, caressing it gently.

 _No_ , he silently agreed. _No, it was definitely not all bad._

* * *

The next morning, the weather was as good as it was probably going to get for travel. The sun shined bright, uninhibited by a single cloud, liquefying the mounds of snow right before their eyes. And the temperature was warm enough already that they didn't anticipate any snow that day.

The sounds of birds chirping and melted ice dripping onto the window sills filled the cabin as they silently stuffed their packs. Rick had managed to get a good bit of sleep overnight, but he was still tired. As was Michonne, doubly so. They looked forward to sensory shock of the sun and the cool air, hoping it would give them a second wind of energy.

Her shoes and socks dried up by the fire overnight. And he'd provided her with his own socks, allowing her to double up. The snow was unlikely to get into his tall boots anyway.

Once bundled up and fully packed, he gave the cabin one last look. "You ready?"

She watched him, curiously, and he could tell she had something to say, but hadn't decided whether or not she was going to say it.

"If I didn't know any better, Rick, I'd say you seem disappointed to be leaving." From the time they'd arrived, it seemed to her like he'd _wanted_ a reason to stay. And in the last day and a half, she hadn't been able to put her finger on why.

He shrugged. She was right, and she wouldn't believe him if he said she wasn't.

Sensing his hesitation, she touched him arm. "What is it?"

"All things considered," he waved his hand around, alluding to the series of unfortunate events that had occurred since they arrived. "It was nice being here with you. Just the two of us. I wish we could have made the most of it."

"We can have sex at home, Rick."

"That's not what I mean. It is, but…" He rubbed his hand over his face. "It just figures, all this bullshit would happen when I have you alone and don't feel like I have to…"

Michonne cocked her head to the side in confusion. Typically, she was marvelous at understanding what he was thinking and feeling. Right now, he was perplexing her.

Gathering from her expression that he wasn't making sense, he tried to rephrase. "I don't talk about it, but it's a lot sometimes. Being the person that they look to."

He didn't have to talk about that. She knew. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his body when he wrapped his arms around her. He had a tired mind, a tired soul. And she wanted more than anything to give him a place to rest.

"Back home, I look at Daryl, Carol, everyone. They've lost so much." He took a deep breath. "But I've got you, and my family. That's a lot to have. It almost feels like all of this…"

"Like it worked out for you," she finished, thinking of when the same thing had been said to her.

"Yeah. I know it doesn't make sense." He dropped his pack onto the floor and took a seat on the arm of the couch. "You know, when I'm with you, that's for me. Sometimes - not all the the time - but sometimes, when I'm with you, I think I should be doing something for _them_ instead."

"So, being out here in the middle of nowhere...?"

"We're stuck. What else is there for us to do except be together? There's nothing else, no one else. Our own little sanctuary."

She nodded, and walked to him, close enough that their knees brushed. "I understand. I've been there. It's not guilt, but it's something."

"When I thought we would have to stay, it was like an excuse. Like when you would work so many hours, you'd be happy when you caught the flu, just so everyone would tell you to stay home already."

"Mm, been there, too." Having been a workaholic back in the day, she could more than relate.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter now. We're not stuck anymore. You got hurt, I got hurt. Our breath smells terrible from those damn pickles," he joked.

Michonne laughed and laid her forehead against his. "You're ready to go, then?"

"I think so. The real sanctuary is back home."

Rick stood, picked up his pack, and opened the door. A gust of cool air rushed inside, bringing a dusting of snow across the threshold. Outside, they secured the door shut tight. Hopefully, the next person or persons to stumble across it could find it as useful as they did.

"By the way," she grabbed a hold of his arm. "When we get back, we're going to see the kids, and then we're going straight to the bedroom. I don't care who knows, who hears, or what they think. Do we have a deal?"

"We have a deal."


End file.
